The man was kneeling astride the woman. After fucking her he had removed the condom and had spent a pleasant few minutes sliding his still erect cock between her ample tits. Now he was approaching the end. While his right hand, fondled a nipple, his left was pumping fast along his shaft. His breathing came in irregular gasps as he urged himself towards the point of no return.
The woman regarded this as the supreme moment. With a word or a gesture she could puncture the erotic tension just as it reached its zenith. She wouldn't do so but she knew she could. She had the power if she chose. She had enjoyed the things he had done to her, the way he had used his fingers, his tongue and, latterly, his cock. The words he used had aroused her. But all the time she was waiting for the point at which his physical need could no longer be controlled.
It arrived. With a deep groan and a final long stroke culminating in a careful squeeze, the man released the cum in a series of short bursts. The woman smiled as her tits received the pearly skeins. She massaged the moistness into her skin.
The man looked at his watch. "It was good," he said.
"I know," she said. "And now you have to get back to the House."
He grimaced. "You know how it is. Slipping away discreetly is tolerated, but miss a division and the whips come down like a ton of bricks. No way to run the country."
After the man had left, Lady Catherine lay back on the bed and let her fingers stray towards her still moist labia. There had been no orgasm for her. On these occasions there often wasn't. That wasn't the objective. In the early days she had worked too hard at achieving her own satisfaction, neglecting her partner. Now she looked for different rewards, new alternatives, sometimes solitary, often not. She had become, for the second time in her life, a woman in full command of her sexual promptings.
When Jack was alive, in the confident middle years of their marriage, they had achieved a rare rapport. She had supported him throughout his efforts to get elected, loyally accompanied him on boring constituency occasions, consoled him when, after being re-elected three times, he lost his seat. The margin was narrow but they decided enough was enough. He wouldn't put himself forward again.
By that time, Jack had his knighthood and the couple found a new existence on the social roundabout. Business and Parliament had provided many contacts and now they were free to enjoy them without restraint. At Cowes Week, at the European Grand Prix, at Wimbledon or the French Open, at Epsom and Goodwood, they were always invited to join the house party set. Dinners were convivial, hilarious even, champagne was plentiful and at night the corridors on the upper floors were seldom silent for long. Yet somehow, Jack and Catherine, still deeply attached in their unconventional love, always seemed to wake the following morning in the same bed, if not always alone. Sex was a free-for-all. The AIDS scare was acknowledged but only in as much as the need for precautions and generally sensible hygiene played a more prominent part.
Five years ago Jack died. A heart-attack while he was entertaining a client to lunch. No illness, no warning. For Catherine, totally devastating. Resilient and independent-spirited though she was, it took most of a year to get herself back together. Throughout her self-imposed abstinence, she was not short of offers. While she turned them away, it was always in her mind that one day a new chapter would begin.
When the time came, there were several lovers who all knew about each other; it was the way Catherine played the game, and it avoided unpleasant scenes. Anyone who showed signs of jealousy was tactfully but swiftly dropped. And so it might have continued until a proposition was put to her which she instantly rejected. Only later to see the possibilities and reconsider.
She was being bedded by a long-standing beau from Jack's parliamentary days. It was a vigorous and wholly satisfactory arrangement until he was promoted to Chief Whip. Whips of the conventional kind played no part in Catherine's inner desires but she was deeply appreciative of a man with a substantial cock, an acute imagination and real stamina. Thus it was a major disappointment when he gently broke the news that their relationship had to come to an end; his party was about to launch a moral crusade and, fearful of what he called 'the tabloid reptiles,' he could not take the risk of jeopardising his political future. However, knowing Catherine's appetite was undiminished, he suggested that he could provide her with more than one other to take his place.
The idea was not put as baldly as that and it took a couple of weeks and two or three farewell discussions in bed before she penetrated to the core of the deal. The Chief Whip knew that Catherine needed sex. He also knew there were various ways of getting his members into the voting lobbies; most were honourable members in every sense but there were those who were susceptible. If they co-operated with him, he could offer recompense by steering them towards an occasional happy hour with Catherine.
Of course, Catherine mused, she had other names and other phone numbers. She could solve her problems her own way. But from the day Jack had been elected she had been fascinated by the ways of those in power and their opponents. If she accepted, while entertaining - and being entertained - she would doubtless become privy to all the gossip of the Westminster village. It would be like the good old days. If not at the centre of the rumour mill, Catherine would be close enough. And, who knew, among the men for whom she would open her legs in the course of duty there might be more than one who would know how to scratch an itch properly.
Which was how she came to entertain Sir Guy T, a man of about her own age, tall, greying hair swept back in a mane, broad-shouldered, naturally authoritative. A Tory of the old school, he represented a farming constituency in the west country. From the first time that Jack sent him round, Catherine sensed she might be meeting an equal, someone who would match her: appetite for appetite, quirk for quirk, insight for insight.
When he entered that first evening, he looked round her apartment, nodded in apparent approval and headed with unerring instinct for the bedroom. "'Fraid we'll have to be a bit quick, m'dear. But want to enjoy this, don't we? Soon have you on your back, if that's how you like it." No preliminary small-talk. No ambiguity. "Jack wants me back within the hour, so let's have a look at you. Lift your skirt."
It wasn't the kind of approach Catherine was accustomed to, but even as she framed the words to say so, something deterred her: for once, she was not going to be the one with the power. She found herself aroused by the role reversal. She understood at once that there was no ordinary sex in the offing. She was going to be used in a way she hadn't experienced since - well, when she thought about it, perhaps never. A little shiver of anticipation communicated itself from her loins to her brain as Sir Guy rapped, "Come on, gel. No point wasting time when you could be getting yourself rogered. Show me."
The moment of choice: turn back or go on? Sir Guy was no subtle seducer. He'd come expecting sex and he clearly saw no need for the gentle approach. Maybe she would regret it but she had to find out: at her age it was unlikely there would ever be another chance. Catherine lifted her skirt; but not so quickly as to let him see she had already succumbed. When the hem rose above her stocking tops to reveal suspenders against pale flesh and then black knickers, Sir Guy grunted. "Good legs," he said. "Stockings. Like that. Turn round and bend over." She did so and felt his palm cupping her buttocks through the silk. "You'll do for me. I like a rump with a bit of flesh on it. Wouldn't mind dallying a bit over that another time. But not today." He gave her buttocks a firm slap with the flat of his hand. "Let's get the togs off, shall we? I'll give you a start then you do the rest."
